Thunderstorm White-hot, searing bolts of lightning      streak like Flying harpies cackling with a      strange glee. Distant thunder, baleful omen of the Ever-nearing menace, follows as a Rumbling, growling, dormant beast      arousing. Trees stand firm, the outposts of a      brave but Most inadequate defense, in glaring Contrast to the glow'ring skies of      shrouding Gloom. All nature seems to stand      and wait the Coming blast—all nature save one      lonely Sparrow, recking nothing of celestial Warfare, having no thought but to      wend its Way to skies of clearer blue, beyond      the Reach of the inevitable tempest.